Eriador Road: part 2
by Holly of Hollin
Summary: In which there is unprecedented entertainment in Rivendell.


_Chapter 3_

The Hall of Fire was quiet; the beating heart of the house of Elrond. And thither, most of those remaining in the last homely house gradually repaired, as the evening embraced night. Their hearts were sore and troubled, and their thoughts were far away.

Nivea, who had by now recovered his usual ebullience, was fussing over a scroll of parchment he was attaching to the hall's carved entrance. It announced boldly: 'OPEN SPECIES NIGHT – 8 TILL LATE – MIRUVOR CONTEST – GRATE PRIZES – ALL WELCOME!"

"If this isn't a time for everyone to let their hair down, I don't know what is," he muttered. "Now, I think that's straight enough, don't you, Mr Bilbo?"

The old hobbit shuffled closer and peered in bafflement.

"'Open species night?' What on Middle Earth is that, Master Nivea?" he enquired.

Nivea smoothed down his silvery jerkin and trews, and checked his reflection in his portable reflector.

"Well, Mr B. Some of us thought it was high time we heard some alternative sounds in Rivendell. After all, it is one of the top venues in Eriador, and we do have such a lot of lovely, talented people here for the council. Men, dwarves.. even that troupe of hobbit minstrels from Bree. You must have heard them playing in the refectory."

Bilbo considered. He recalled being disturbed at a recent meal by a dreadful, thin, scrapey noise, like nails on slate. He had thought an animal had somehow crept in to Rivendel to die - but to his surprise it was a trio of grim-faced, common-looking hobbits, pathetically scraping away on rustic wooden instruments in the corner. Each wore an ill-fitting black and white uniform, and each looked thoroughly miserable.

"My good elf, I don't think the company will appreciate such so-called music in such an august setting," he declared. "No, no.. much better I give them my Musical History of the First Age in 147 parts. I've been practising it for ages, you know."

Nivea's face became sphinx-like. He took up a small board with a parchment fixed to it and studied it intently. He sighed.

"We'll try and find you a spot, but I can't promise anything," he said finally. "We've got such a lot of good acts on tonight, you see. Look, why don't you go in and get yourself a drink – on the house - and I'll see what I can do."

The Lady Callexica swayed languidly in her chair, strands of her pale gold hair escaping to her bare shoulders.

Over on the stage, the sweet voices of 'The Elbereth Three' reached the climax of their hymn to Varda with an achingly pure harmony. Sitting beside her, Lord Elrond clapped loudly, and with enthusiasm.

"Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo, well done. Let's hear it again."

Callexica put her head in her hands, nearly knocking over her goblet of miruvor.

"By the Valar, please, not again," she said.

Beside her, the Lady Arwen hastened to clear up the spilled liquid with a napkin. Elrond's smile grew fixed, even as he continued clapping.

"I don't know why you bother attending these evenings when you obviously find them such a bore," he hissed sideways.

"And just look at the state of you. How many glasses of miruvor is that tonight? Or should I say flagons?" Callexica tossed her head slowly.

"Arwen, tell my brother-in-law that this is only my third goblet, if he must know," she said. "And if I have to listen to that song one more time, I won't be responsible for my actions."

Elrond's lip curled. He was about to respond when dark-haired Galdor of the Havens, also at the table, interrupted.

"Perhaps, Lord Elrond, the company would like to sample another dish from our musical menu, before we return to the old favourites," he said smoothly, raising his own goblet to the two noblewomen.

Gratefully, Callexica mouthed back: "Thank you".

With bad grace, Elrond signalled Nivea, passing his hand across his throat. Nivea nodded and unceremoniously pushed the still-bowing trio from the stage. He drew the curtain behind him and consulted his parchment again.

"My Lords and Ladies… immortals and, er, others… give it up for The Elbereth Three!"

There was a smattering of polite applause, and a subdued buzz of conversation.

"Our next act is one of the most controversial groups to tour west of the Misty Mountains since the Black Riders. Put your hands together for... Glorfindel and the Wargheads!"

Murmurs arose as the curtains parted to reveal something never seen before in the great hall of Rivendell. Ranged across the space between the pillars were three hobbits and one dwarf, each wearing what appeared to be rough travelling clothes of black leather.

The two (apparently) male hobbits stood at the front, to the left and right. Both carried strangely shaped lyres with long necks, strung with bright silver strings. They seemed indifferent, even unaware of the onlookers. To one side, their lady companion clasped a thin, silvery pole, topped with a black knob. A similar pole stood by itself in the centre.

At the back, a glowering dwarf in spiked cap sat behind a pile of round cylinders, each stretched with skins and cunningly lashed together with discs of brass. In his hands, he held up two wooden sticks.

The Lady Callexica ceased her swaying and sat up very straight.

"Hello," she said brightly. "They look interesting. And didn't he say Glorfindel..."

She was interrupted as Glorfindel himself swaggered onto the stage, snatching up the vacant pole with a swipe of his hand. Like his companions, he wore skins of black, such as no elf lord had ever worn before. Black too were the small windows of glass bound over his eyes. Only his luxuriant golden mane broke the prevailing theme.

He nodded once in the direction of Elrond's table, and again to his companions on stage.

"One, two… one two three four."

Behind him, the dwarf began to hit the cylinders with a heavy rhythm. The hobbits responded with a strange, wild melody. Like the voice of the wind talking, it seemed to those listening, whispering of swift journeys over lands and mountains far off and forgotten, frozen with ice or endless night. Yet nearly all who heard were beguiled by those strange patterns of sound that went back and forth, back and forth, between them.

The lady hobbit stood silent, looking at Glorfindel, who was swaying in a very different way from Callexica. He seemed to be listening to the musicians; waiting for exactly the right moment.

It came. He leaned outwards and began to sing.

"_Oooh, a storm is threatening__  
__My very life today__  
__If we don't beat Sauron__  
__Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away._"

The mouths of Callexica and Arwen dropped open. Galdor smiled, but Elrond's eyebrows shot roofwards.

The music grew louder as the Wargheads drove themselves to greater efforts. The lady hobbit had now joined in the singing – sometimes echoing Glorfindel's words; sometimes just the wild, driving notes of the song:

"_Elf children - he's just a trek away__  
__He's just a trek away__  
__Man children, he's just a trek away__  
__He's just a trek away, yeah…_"

Callexica and Arwen were shaking their heads and arms to the music, misting their fine hair about their heads. Indeed, most of the women in the company – and not a few of the men – were doing the same. Even the Elbereth Three were tapping their feet.

Elrond looked around, aghast. Some of the younger elves were beginning to get up and dance – something unprecedented on a music night.

Suddenly, Glorfindel stopped singing and pulled out a thin sliver of metal, placing it to his lips. Metallic, rasping sounds issued forth while the hobbit lady chorused:

"_Death, Mordor__  
__It's just a trek away__  
__It's just a trek away_."

Elrond waved to Nivea, his eyes aflame. The master of ceremonies hurried to his side.

"DO something, Nivea," he shouted over the din. "They are under an enchantment."

"My Lord, you're quite right," shouted Nivea in Elrond's ear. Still he could barely hear him. "Alas, in my experience, breaking the enchantment does far more harm than letting it run its course. I've seen terrible cases in my time, my Lord, terrible."

Elrond looked at his ladies, who were by now throwing wild shapes with their arms. Abruptly, he sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair.

"Very well then, let them be," he declared. "I shall retire to my chambers with a good scroll. You will inform me, Master Nivea, when this so-called enchantment has well and truly run its course."

Nivea bowed as his master turned on his heel and stalked out. Behind him, The Wargheads began to howl.

_To be continued..._


End file.
